


In the Blood

by Laylah



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, F/M, Knights - Freeform, Loyalty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-22
Updated: 2007-10-22
Packaged: 2017-10-12 20:05:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/128532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her laughter is bitter, broken-edged enough to make him flinch. These years cannot have been kind to her, any more than they were to him. "Well?" she says. "Did Vossler not tell you?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pure Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "My lady," Vossler protests. "It is my sworn duty to care for you, and that has not changed when you are --"

"Too close," the princess hisses, her voice low. She's drawn back in the shadows where he can barely see her. "Stay back."

"My lady," Vossler protests. "It is my sworn duty to care for you, and that has not changed when you are --"

The noise she makes when he steps closer is a _snarl_ , and she feints, lunges forward, so that the faint light filtering down into Lowtown shows him the wildness on her face. "Stay _back_ ," she says again. "I -- I thirst, and I know not -- how long I can control myself."

Vossler swallows hard. "You have not killed," he says. "Even when you -- fed -- from criminals, men we would not have missed, you did not kill."

"I don't need that much," Ashe whispers. She looks down, her hair falling over her face, a veil, as if to hide her shame.

"Then let me care for you," Vossler says. He reaches up and unbuckles the collar of his armor. His fingers tremble, but do not falter. "Let me provide for you, my lady. It is my duty. And I wish it."

There is a space of two more heartbeats, perhaps three, and then she moves -- and he is a soldier, has trained for years, but he still cannot react fast enough, cannot flinch away and cannot stop himself from flinching away, before her hands have closed on his shoulders. Her grip is tight, her skin cold.

"Tell me," she says, her voice hoarse and shaking, "that it's all right."

Vossler wraps his arms around her, carefully. "Be at ease, my lady," he whispers. He cradles the back of her neck in one hand, guiding her closer. "I offer this freely."

Her lips press to his throat, and his heart pounds, and there is pain when she bites him but only for a moment, only a little sting as her fangs pierce his flesh -- and then she moans, a soft, lost-kitten sound, and begins to suck.

His hand tightens on the nape of her neck reflexively, a low sound caught in his throat at the cool tendrils of pleasure snaking through his blood. Her mouth on him is all that matters, for all that he knows -- they need to leave Rabanastre, they need to find somewhere safe for her to hide in her condition, they need to _stop doing this_ before their allies return and see her feeding on his blood --

But Ashe's mouth works against the wounds in his throat, suckling, teasing more blood from him, her tongue lapping at the ragged tears she has made, and all Vossler can do is surrender. Her skin warms where she's pressed against him, and he thinks, distantly, with the part of him that is not delirious already from her bite, that he is grateful for that, for the clear proof that he is helping her.

When she releases him, and licks one last time to speed the healing of the wound, he is dizzy from the blood loss and from having her so close.

"Vossler," she whispers, her breath against his skin. "Vossler, I want --" and she stops, cutting herself off as though she dare not continue.

"I am yours to command," he says, "and if you need more, I still have the strength --"

Her hand stops him, pushing up under the links of his mail to find him already hard, and his promises are lost, his breath caught. "I _want_ ," she says, and it is not a request.

Any protest he might have made before is useless now, first because she is so far outside the realms of propriety since she changed and second because she is not waiting for him to answer, and her strength when she has just fed is beyond that of any mortal man. By the time he has said, "We should not," she has pushed him down, among the bales of linen and sacks of grain, and by the time he has said, "If someone should see," she has pulled his shorts open, roughly, so that he hears fabric tear, and when he tries at least to _slow_ her with his hands on her hips, and says, "My lady --" she snarls.

Her eyes flash red in the dim light, and she bares her teeth, his blood smeared around her lips. "I need," she starts, and then, stops, gasping for breath that Vossler thinks she may no longer need. "Please," she says instead. "Please let me have this."

"I could not deny you," he says hoarsely, which has ever been true but never more than now, when her bite throbs with each beat of his heart.

So Ashe twists free of her skirt and kneels over him, and when she sinks down to take him in she is warm as any living woman, warm and slick and tight, and she is demanding as any queen, taking him deep and holding him there, rocking on top of him as she pleasures herself. He holds on tight to her thighs, holds his breath, holds on to his control as best he can, waiting, the wet heat almost -- but never quite -- more than he can bear -- and when she comes it wracks her, makes her shudder helplessly, her hands gripping his arms so tightly that the steel of his rerebraces creaks.

"You, also," she demands, opening her eyes to watch him, and he nods, thrusting now himself, still dizzy with the blood she has taken, and he feels himself come closer, reaching toward it, now, color bursting before his eyes --

"Vossler," Ashe is saying, her voice low and urgent, "Vossler -- are you -- tell me you're all right."

He opens his eyes, looking up to see her watching him, her eyes wide and panicked. "I'm fine," he says. He must have lost consciousness, right in that moment, the sensation too much to bear. "I did not mean to worry you."

Ashe smiles shakily. "See that you don't," she says, and leans down to wrap her arms around him, her hair fine as satin against his cheek, her breath warm now in the hollow of his shoulder. "I could not bear to think that I had harmed you."

"You have not," he promises. He presses a kiss to her temple, and lets his arms settle around her. "You have not."


	2. Blood Oath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her laughter is bitter, broken-edged enough to make him flinch. These years cannot have been kind to her, any more than they were to him. "Well?" she says. "Did Vossler not tell you?"

"Come with me," Larsa says to Vossler, and Vossler nods.

Before he leaves, though, he claps a hand to Basch's shoulder. "What she needs," he says, "you can --" and he checks himself. "She does not need to do serious harm. Be not afraid."

"I will not," Basch promises, though he knows not what Vossler means. It is enough that he has earned back Vossler's trust this much -- that his devotion to the lady Ashe is not in question. He holds fast to the memory of that instant, the banked heat in Vossler's eyes and all the words not spoken, as their ragtag rescue party flees back to Bhujerba.

Marquis Ondore, at the urging of the pirates, has a feast prepared for them, but when Basch comes down to the table, his hair still damp from the luxury of the baths, he discovers that Ashe is not there. "The lady feels unwell," the majordomo tells him. "She will keep to her rooms."

Basch eats quickly, for all that he might wish to linger, and excuses himself. When he knocks at the door to Ashe's room, there is no answer.

"Your majesty?" he calls.

Still no response. Briefly he feels guilt at the idea that he might invade her privacy, that she might be sleeping and recovering from her captivity -- but it is her safety, not her privacy, that is his first charge. He presses the latch, and the door opens smoothly inward.

Ashe has not lit any of the lamps, so the light is dim, which gives him pause; but she is standing by the window, not sleeping after all, and she says, "Close the door."

Basch steps inside, and closes the door behind him. "Majesty. Are you well?"

Her laughter is bitter, broken-edged enough to make him flinch. These years cannot have been kind to her, any more than they were to him. "Well?" she says. "Did Vossler not tell you?"

"We spoke but little, before your rescue," Basch says. Something has gone wrong, in his absence, something that he cannot yet name, but that makes unease prickle down his spine. "What has happened?"

She raises her head, and something shines in her eyes, unnatural and golden. "When my uncle pronounced me dead," she says coldly, "he was not so far wrong as he was with you."

For a moment Basch cannot speak. The horror of it must have been nearly unbearable -- for her, reduced to this, and for Vossler also, seeing Dalmasca's royal line extinguished and yet unable to grieve while he must yet care for her. "I am," Basch begins, but he cannot bring himself to say anything as inadequate as _I am sorry_. "If there were any way of restoring you, I --"

"You?" she interrupts. "You, who betrayed my kingdom and slew my father?"

He looks down. "I failed King Raminas," he says. "But I did not betray him, and he did not die by my hand."

He has not time to respond, when she moves; in the space of a heartbeat she is upon him, knocking him to the floor so that his breath escapes him in a sharp huff and the sore knots of scar in his shoulders twinge. She takes his face in both hands, her grip inhumanly strong, and forces him to look up into the chill light of her eyes.

What comes next he can only call an invasion -- the way her will strips him bare, delving into his mind, pulling at the memory of that night until the images threaten to overwhelm all his senses. Distantly he can hear himself breathing, loud and ragged, his secrets torn from him by her demands -- the night of his failure and onward into his imprisonment, faint sounds of pain passing his lips as she pushes heedless through those memories, the weight of shackles and the bite of the whip and the endless, dragging hunger.

She wrenches back, averting her eyes, her face twisted in pain. Basch feels sick. His throat is raw, the way it would be after an interrogation. His heart pounds.

And Ashe, he realizes when he can calm himself somewhat, is shaking. "Your majesty," he says, daring to rest a hand on her thigh where she straddles him. Her skin is cool to the touch. "I did not wish to distress you."

"You did not -- you --" She takes a deep, shuddering breath. "For two years I have taught myself to hate you, to curse your memory for what you had -- for what I believed you had done. And now --" She grimaces.

"The ruse was cleverly played," Basch says. "you had every cause to believe it." The sickness, the terror of the dungeon, is fading now, enough so that he might ask: "I have not forsworn my oath to Dalmasca, and to her sovereign. Will you allow me to serve you once more, as Vossler still does?"

The glow of power is less prominent in her eyes when she looks down at him, or perhaps he grows accustomed to it. "As Vossler does," she says. "Do you know what he has done for me, these last six months?"

Basch swallows hard. _She does not need to do serious harm_. "He did not tell me, but I suspect." He finds that he is not afraid. "Anything that I can offer is yours."

"Your willingness reproaches me," Ashe says, but her expression is less remorseful than pleading.

"It is not so intended," Basch answers. "You did not come to share the feast with us," he says. "You must be hungry." Hs tilts back his head, exposing his bare throat.

Ashe leans down, her weight settling above him. "My feasts, of late, have been more intimate than that which my uncle prepared." Her breath is cool against his skin. Basch closes his eyes.

He expects to feel pain, but her fangs cut as cleanly as a finely-honed blade, and there is only a faint sting that is less burdensome than the discomfort that has been his constant companion these past two years. He is less prepared for the lethargy that accompanies the bite, a heaviness to his limbs almost like the effect of Slow magick, save for the creeping pleasure in it. Ashe's mouth works against his throat, rhythmic pressure, and her hands knead at his shoulders the way a nursing kitten kneads at its mother's belly. She whimpers when he manages to raise his hands to wrap his arms around her waist, and rocks her hips, grinding shamelessly against him. It should -- if he were more in control of himself, he is certain it would arouse him, and yet like this, with the enchantment that her bite casts over him, the pleasure is diffused, instead of driving. She moves above him, and he drifts, and perhaps she shudders hard in the gathering dark, but he cannot be certain.

"Thank you," she murmurs in his ear, when she has drunk her fill and licked his wounds closed. "You are true as you ever were, and I am grateful." Something is wrong in the tone of her voice, but Basch cannot name it, not until she slips free of his arms and rises. "Tell my uncle that I will not be caged," she says, and then she is gone.


End file.
